No Man
by Delgodess
Summary: Had he been anything other than the undead servant of the Dark Lord, he would have found her beautiful. Non Eowyn/Faramir
1. Death

**Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings and all its characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. **

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"I am no man!"

He heard the words, felt the blade slide through the crevices of his helm and writhed in long forgotten agony as the unholy power chaining him to this foul existence drained from his wicked form.

It was bitterly amusing, he thought with spiteful malice, that his last image in the world of Men would be of _her_.

His accursed destroyer.

Had he been anything other than the undead servant of the Dark Lord, he would have found her beautiful.

Sunlight had broken through the veiled mist, shining on his conqueror at the moment of his demise, as if to still time for this last vision.

A mockery from the God's, he was sure.

It shone behind her, lighting the golden strands streaming from her fair head like a fiery halo, caressing the skin of her face as if to emphasize the feminine curve of her small, fragile neck.

He had grasped it with his armored hand not moments before; how could he have not seen her for what she was? She had wrapped her body in chain and mail, hiding her weakness from searching eyes, but her movements were all wrong; too smooth, too graceful, too _soft_.

Even the killing strike, though quick and lased with fury, a woman's fury he saw now, was nothing like a man's.

Perhaps it was that gentleness that pierced him, that purity that had reached his vile shriveled soul and tore it asunder.

Her eyes shone with their own light, victory and sorrowful tears welling in them. The blue mirrors were as sharp as the north wind, burning with hatred and wide with barely restrained fear.

He felt cruel satisfaction when he beheld the terror in his Death's gaze, pleased that his image would haunt her just as hers would haunt him, if only for a moment before he was pulled into the void.

Darkness tugged at him, dragging him away from his last sight and the pain he had endured for that fleeting instant. It consumed him, until at last, all was still and silent. Then bitterly, hatefully, the Witch-king of Angmar, Black Captain and Lord of the Nazgûl, let go.

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His eyes opened to fire and smoke, a crazed man wreathed in flames calling out for his son. Their gazes met, horrified realization and relief coloring the elder's face before he reared back, screaming in agony as he ran from sight. A strange heaviness held him, weakness and confusion making the prone enemies' efforts to move useless.

A deep voice spoke; it's tired and old tones calling up familiar pangs of loathing and disdain.

"So passes Denethor, son of Ecthelion."

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**AN: *Smiles wickedly* **

**Review Please!**

**~Delgodess**


	2. Delight

**Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings and all its characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. **

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Faramir they called him.

Last living descendant of the line of the Stewarts of Gondor.

He nodded distractedly as yet another concerned bystander came to offer him condolences for the loss of his 'father'.

The coward who had set himself aflame and burned to death because of his guilt and stupidity.

They left him alone for the most part, thinking his glazed eyes and short answers to their queries were because of shocked grief or delirium. All the better, for the servant of darkness could not be bothered with such trifles. He had much to think about. Or rather, much to plan.

He was startled from his reverie by a flash of light, the golden color fading quickly from his sight as its source rounded one of the many pillars lining the upper levels of the healing chambers.

He was sitting on an ornate bench, the cold stone leaching the warmth from his new body, despite the wool blanket someone had thoughtfully, and probably kindly, placed around his shoulders.

He rose on unsteady feet, eyes taking on the sharpness of curiosity.

There was… a presence.

It was only vaguely familiar, but that alone was enough to make him search through the masses, wondering why he would_ know_ someone in this place.

He stretched his senses to make sure, feeling the bright burn of the White Wizard and wild spark of Gondor's new King in the throne room, where they had been for the last two hours, discussing the things to come. The elf, green and changing like the forest he hailed from, ran from place to place, aiding those who needed it along with the dwarf, stubborn and rust red.

Snarling inwardly, he pulled back, quickly hiding himself before Gandalf could sense anything amiss. He could not let the old fool ruin this opportunity; after all, sewing discord among the ranks of Men was _so_ much easier from the _inside_.

But there was this _presence_ when he should know no others, so he focused on it, forcing his infirm body to limp closer. It was warm, like sunshine and clean winds, the bright golden color glowing in his minds' eye. His uneven steps echoed in the quiet twilight, the hurried voices of healers distant in this upper common room.

He rounded a large pillar, the sight before him shocking enough to make him slump against the stone beside him.

It was _her_.

That she would appear before him, close enough to touch, to swiftly slide the small dagger digging into the heel of his boot though her fragile ribs and rip out her heart! That he couldn't, he wouldn't _dare_ attempt such a thing as he was, made his blood roil.

He drank her in, devouring her unarmored body and the loose golden hair that had caught his eye as dark glee filled him. Arrangements shifted in his head, deadlines and plots falling by the wayside as he took in her form.

She wore a light gown, the material modestly hugging her figure until it flared at her hips. It was plain, simple; made for easy movement and comfort. She would not be hampered by the garment if she needed to move quickly.

She faced away from him on the terrace, staring out at the war torn city and holding herself as if to ward off evening's chill. But it was a pleasant night, and warm enough, so she must have held herself so in comfort or pain.

A smile quirked his lips for an instant; the thought of having done more damage to the Shield Maiden highly appealing.

He would have to go slowly, take his time and play his part. He would woo her, break her, and perhaps when the World of Men had fallen, his Master would let him keep her.

He dragged up memories from this bodies' last inhabitant, methodically shifting through the information for clues about his foe and how he should approach her. He was disappointed to find that precious little was known; mostly rumors or passing comments and thread bare facts.

No matter.

Revenge would be sweet.

The imposter pulled himself upright, ambling determinedly to her side. He huffed, inwardly annoyed at his bodies' lack of coordination. He felt so weak, so heavy, but most importantly, so exposed. He could not fade into the shadows, at least not in his wounded state, nor was he covered in plate mail. He stood in the center of Man's last standing city, comfortably sharing a quiet terrace with his worst enemy.

Fate had a cruel, twisted irony.

"It is beautiful."

She spoke, like a whispered sigh on the wind. He answered after some time, falling into character and letting his words hang in air.

"You should have seen it before."

She was looking at him, watching him from beneath her lashes but he ignored her searching gaze, grinning viciously behind his facade at the great city laid to waste. He turned to her then, bowing as much as his injury would allow.

"I am Faramir, son of Denethor."

She curtsied in return, long hair falling over her shoulder as she did so.

"I am Éowyn, Shield Maiden and niece of Théoden King."

"Éowyn."

He savored her name, tasting it, then took her hand, the one which had held the blade, kissing it with a murmured, "My Lady."

His killer blushed, light pink fluttering over her cheeks as the scarlet blood rose in them. She pulled her hand away gently, if a bit quickly.

A dark chuckle took him and he released it good naturedly, smiling boyishly at her increased redness, then let their introduction pitter off into a comfortable silence.

He would need her relaxed and open; so he would soothe her with gentleness and charm.

At length he spoke again.

"And what is a beauty such as you doing here?"

She lowered her head, demure, like a proper Lady, softly replying.

"You flatter me, sir."

He frowned, keen eyes watching her intently as he shifted to better accommodate his wound. A cool wind blew across the balcony, ruffling the vines of the wall climbing plants and sending the woman's yellow hair adrift. It reminded him of the battle field.

His frown deepened.

Where was her determined fire? Where was her fight?

Her _hatred_?

His voice was sharper than he had intended, jerking his chin down to look into her blue eyes.

"No."

Her lips hung open for a moment in a silent 'o', surprised at his tone and taken aback by his boldness. She angled her lithe body (How was it that one so _small_ could have killed _him_?) towards his tall figure.

"Flattery is not my way, nor has it ever been."

The half-lie settled on his tongue easily and he relished its rich flavor, waiting patiently for her response.

She stared at him for a moment, anxiously fingering a long white scar that ran the length her arm. He could not help but smirk at the sight, pleased that his weapon had shattered more than just her shield, before glancing back at her face.

Ah, there was the spark.

"I fought in the battle." She gritted out harshly, defiantly lifting her shoulders and unconsciously balancing on the balls of her feet, readying to defend herself from his would be disdain, his bigotry or disapproval.

"Oh…" He trailed off deliberately, brows raised in amusement at this little game, at coaxing reactions from her with loaded words.

Her eyes froze, hardening to flints of ice.

"It is _you_ who slew the Witch King."

She flinched at the dreaded name, pulling away, and he bowed again to hide his grin. "Forgive me, my Lady."

They did not talk for some time afterwards, but when they did, it was of simple things.

They spoke of the sprawling city, of horses in the evening sun and of the smell of freshly cut hay in the summer. She would smile at him and once, he had even managed to tease a laugh from her sorrowful form.

But the hour grew late, his wounds sore and his desire to commune with his Master unbearable.

He excused himself, bidding her good night and moved to go to his rest. She stopped him with a soft touch.

"Faramir," She called softly, asking him with a smile on her red lips and a sparkle in her tired eyes.

"Would you walk with me tomorrow evening? In the upper courtyard?"

The Lord of the Nazgûl smiled back.

"I would be delighted."

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**AN: I would **_**really **_**like some feedback on this one. Anything: spelling, grammar, sentence flow, description, character development, etc. I tried to get some constructive criticism, but was disappointed.**

**Please review!**

**~Delgodess**


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